15 His Twin Bed
by dietplainlite
Summary: With the threat of Moriarty's possible return looming, Sherlock spirits Molly away to his parents' home to hide. Fill for the Fifty Reasons to Have (Sherlolly) Sex meme. Number 15: You finally get a chance to show your childhood home some action.


"Sherlock I still don't understand," Molly said, lifting the hood of her raincoat over her head as she got out of the car.

Sherlock hefted her suitcase from the boot and slammed it shut. "Hmm?"

"Well, isn't my being here going to put your mum and dad in danger?"

"They're in Paris. Won't be back for a week, and we should have this all wrapped up well before then."

Molly followed Sherlock into the cozily furnished sitting room. "But this is probably the first place they'll look, right? If anyone's after me?"

"The third," Sherlock said, heading up a narrow flight of stairs. "Possibly fourth." Molly followed him up the stairs, down an equally narrow hallway and into the second door on the right. The door frame was so low that Sherlock had to duck as he entered.

"Mycroft's room is bigger but Mummy turned it into a scrapbooking room. So mine will have to do." He set her suitcase on the bed and put his arms behind his back. He seemed to take up most of the space in the small, low ceilinged room.

"This was—is your room?" Molly asked with a smile. It was plain, with whitewashed walls and simple furniture, its main features a twin bed with an iron frame and a massive chest of drawers.

"Yes, well. Yes," he said. "She's gotten rid of everything but the furniture so it's more of a guest room now." He turned and flipped the sheer curtains back, peering out the window. He looked at his watch. "You can unpack if you'd like. I need to make a few phone calls." He swept out of the room and down the stairs. She heard a thump and a muttered curse as he hit his head on the ceiling on the way down.

"Old houses," she sighed. Her grandmother had lived in an old peasant cottage about an eighth of the size but probably the same age as this estate cottage. Molly looked out the window, the rippled glass and rain distorting her view of the countryside. She let the curtain fall back down and went to her suitcase. She'd packed in haste but had managed to grab her favorite jumper. It was several sizes too big, but the deep forest green suited her and it felt impossibly soft, more like angora than sheep's wool. She took off her shirt and bra, pulled the faded jumper on, and traded her jeans, which were soaked at the hem, with a dry pair of leggings before she set about unpacking. The low timbre of Sherlock's voice downstairs and the occasional rumble of thunder kept the country stillness from becoming uncomfortable. She'd almost finished putting away her things when she heard Sherlock ascending the stairs again.

He walked in with an armload of fire wood. He'd removed his coat and jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He knelt in front of the fireplace and began building a fire. "What?"

"You look—more annoyed than usual."

"Oh, there have been some hiccups with the arrangements. A bit of a shortage of manpower due to an assassination attempt in Malta or something."

"Oh," she said, twisting the hem of her jumper. "So that means…"

He turned around and smiled, tight lipped. "It means I'm here until they get it sorted, which won't be until at least tomorrow. "

"Did you even bring anything? Clothes or—"

"I'm sure there's something still here that will fit me, if it comes down to it," he said, waving his hand. "I've worn the same suit two days in a row before."

"Okay," Molly said. She stood by the bed watching him work, not sure if she should sit or offer to help or go downstairs and make tea or what. The room had seemed an adequate size when she'd been in it alone but it shrank to nearly nothing as soon as he came in. She wasn't even sure if there was enough oxygen in the room to start a fire.

Feeling woozy, she sat on the bed and put her head in her hands, elbows on her knees, counting to ten until the dizziness passed. Anxiety, obviously, over the threat posed by Moriarty's possible return, and guilt for keeping Sherlock away from London when everyone needed him. Why had he come with her? Yes it was his parents' home but surely they could have spared someone to let her in and babysit her.

"Sherlock," she said after her head cleared. He sat by the fireplace now, forearms resting on his knees as he monitored the fire to make sure it had truly caught before he replaced the screen.

"Hmm?" he said, still staring at the fire.

"Why did you come here with me?"

Sherlock jerked his head toward her, the wrinkle appearing above his nose. "Who else was supposed to come?"

Molly shrugged and pulled her hands inside her sleeves. "I figure anyone as long as they had a gun. You're needed back in London and now you're stuck."

"Right now I'm as useful here as there," he said, turning back to the fire. "Besides, it was only supposed to be an hour or two."

"Oh," she said.

Something in her voice made him turn to look at her again. His eyes scanned every inch of her and he opened his mouth, then snapped it shut and turned back toward the fire. She lay on the bed and curled up, pulling the jumper over her knees and shins.

He stood up to replace the screen and turned to her, mouth turning upward when he saw the little cocoon she'd made with her jumper. "If I end up sleeping tonight, you can have my parents' bed and I'll take this one."

"Is this one even long enough for you?" she said. She could have fallen asleep right then; the room had heated up beautifully and the excitement of the last few hours had taken its toll.

"Barely," he said, looking her over again. "Er, there are extra blankets in the closet and there may even be a spare pillow but my parents have about a dozen on their bed."

"Okay," she yawned. She reached down and pulled the quilt from the end of the bed over her and snuggled into it. "I just need an hour or so. Good night, or evening. Or whatever."

"It's four o'clock in the afternoon."

"Then good afternoon. And thank you for the fire."

Molly's eyes fluttered open and she took in the room with some confusion. Glowing embers in the fireplace, white washed walls, dim light from a narrow window and the tapping of rain on glass and roof. A brief moment of panic when she remembered where she was and why she was there, followed by more confusion as she noticed the strong arm around her waist and the warm body at her back.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Lying with you in bed in my childhood room," he murmured into her hair, sounding not entirely awake himself.

"Yes, but why?" she asked.

"The fire died and you looked cold."

"I don't feel cold."

He sighed. "That's because I'm warming you up."

"Why didn't you build it up again?"

"What?"

"The fire."

"Didn't want to go downstairs for more wood," he said, burying his nose deeper into her hair. "I'd planned to get up before you woke up."

"How did you know when I'd wake up?"

"You said you needed an hour."

"Sherlock, we can't all tell ourselves to wake up at a certain time and just do it."

"You can, you just won't."

She rolled over to face him—her nose inches from his chest—and took a few moments to breathe him in. He smelled like always, the sharp and spicy scent of his aftershave mixed with his sweat. A bit of wood smoke today, as well as cigarette smoke. And peppermint. He'd chewed gum or brushed his teeth before getting into bed with her. When she reached up and began toying with his shirt collar and the undone top button, she could feel his heart rate increase where she had her other hand pressed to his chest. When she moved down to play with the first done up button, he gasped and covered her hand with his.

"Molly," he warned.

"What?" she said. "You could have put another blanket over me, even if you were too lazy to go downstairs. And there was absolutely no reason for you to brush your teeth after your cigarette if you were just coming in to check on me."

"What are you implying, Molly Hooper?" he asked, his voice so low it sent jolts of pleasure through her stomach.

"I'm not implying anything," she said. She undid the button and slipped her hand underneath his shirt, then leaned in to kiss the base of his throat.

He moved his hand up her arm and over her shoulder to bury it in her hair, at her nape. He tugged slightly so that she would look at him.

"Molly, last time-"

"Was a mistake?" she said

Last time. When she'd gotten home after performing a fake autopsy and falsifying his paperwork to find him sitting on her sofa watching a documentary on chimpanzees, arms wrapped around his knees. She'd practically flown across the room—she hadn't seen him since watching him land safely—and they'd simply fallen on each other. They hadn't spoken except to say each other's names and he'd fucked her so hard she had fabric burns from her sofa and she'd marked his sides and back with bruises as well as scratches.

"Not a mistake," he said, his thumb brushing along her jawline. "Impulsive, reckless—"

"Incredible?"

"Yes," he said, looking at her mouth, his eyes shielded by his half-closed lids. "You don't regret it?"

"I told you that then."

"Your brain was still swimming in endorphins then."

Molly pulled herself closer still, until her lips were millimeters from his. "It was the most perfect thing that could have happened."

She hesitated, unable to make the final move. They could write the other time off to adrenaline, to fear and desperation. They could say it didn't mean anything. They had both walked away from it intact.

But this. Of course she was terrified. Sherlock was, too. He wouldn't have brought her here if the threat wasn't real, no matter how coolly he'd flipped up his collar when they'd gotten out of the car, or how briskly he'd explained everything to her back at Bart's. But they still had their wits about them, didn't they?

With a tiny whine, he finally closed the distance and pressed his lips against hers, and with the first contact it all came rushing back. She thought she'd erased the taste of Sherlock's mouth with hundreds of kisses from Tom. She knew to the millimeter the thickness of his bottom lip as she pulled it between her teeth. Even these gentle kisses were familiar, even though they'd never shared a gentle kiss.

She wanted him inside her immediately, wanted him to brand her again, make her his again, do that absolutely brilliant thing with his hips again and make her forget how she clung to a man who was right for the girl she was supposed to be but not the girl she is.

Her hand roamed down his chest to his prick, which was already straining against his trousers. She undid the button, but before she could undo the zipper she found herself underneath him with her hand pinned above her head. They were positioned dangerously near the edge of the narrow bed but she knew that if they fell he'd maneuver them so that she wouldn't hit the floor. He touched his forehead to hers.

"You don't want to?" she asked.

"I think it's obvious I do," he said. "I just want—"

"To take it slowly?"

He nodded and she kissed the tip of his nose before pushing on his shoulder with her free hand. He sat back on his heels, watching her closely as she sat up and shimmied to the center of the bed and took off the jumper. Her nipples tightened in the cool air. She tossed it to the side and looked back at him. He appraised her, his eyes wandering all over her skin.

"Am I different?" she asked.

"Your breasts are slightly larger. You're back on the pill. Or at least I hope so because otherwise it indicates you're ovulating and I didn't exactly plan for this eventuality."

"You always did know how to woo a girl," she said, leaning back on her elbows as he reached toward her and took hold of the waistband of her leggings. "But yes I'm back on the pill. The IUD wasn't working for me." His fingers grazed her thighs and calves as he removed the garment. He left her knickers on.

Molly got on her knees and moved toward him. She straddled his right thigh and pressed herself against him, reveling in the feel of his finely spun shirt on her nipples and breasts and the tautness of his vastus lateralis against her core. He hooked his arm around her waist to steady her, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her knickers and brushing against her bum. A smile flickered across his face as he looked down.

"It seems I'm a bit overdressed."

"I can help with that," Molly said and began working on his shirt buttons as he began working on her neck. Unfortunately, having her neck kissed tended to make Molly lose most of her muscular coordination, so progress on ridding Sherlock of his shirt stopped as she sighed and leaned into him, tilting her head to give him better access.

He laughed, his breath hot on her damp skin. "None of that, Hooper. You're slacking."

She sat up and redoubled her efforts to get his shirt off. She pushed it off his shoulders, briefly thanking the powers that be for his rolled up sleeves and therefore unbuttoned cuffs. Her hands sought out her favorite parts, roaming along the tight planes of his tummy and pausing for a moment to place her finger on the indentation in his abdomen. Her fingertip fit perfectly in the scar. She kissed along his collarbone and made her way to his neck, exacting her revenge by sucking slowly but strongly just below his ear until he was a panting mess. She pulled back to examine her handiwork and Sherlock growled, took her by the waist, and lowered them both to the bed. He ground his pelvis into hers and she bucked against him, digging blunt nails into his shoulders and moaning softly.

"You're still wearing too much," she said.

"It's okay, we won't be needing that for a while," Sherlock said, right before he took her nipple into his mouth.

Molly arched her back as he cupped her other breast in his hand, pinching the nipple between his index and ring fingers. He slid the same hand down her side, caressing the curve of her waist and hip. As he eased his fingers into her knickers, he lifted his head and hovered over her so that he could watch her face when he made contact with her clit. She gasped at the touch, moving against his hand as he worked her center in slow circles, her legs opening wider. She wanted to beg him to fuck her. She didn't care if it was with his fingers or his tongue or his cock. She just needed him.

"Molly."

The look on his face when she opened her eyes made her absolutely ache. She'd never seen him look so open and vulnerable, not even the night he'd come to her for help faking his death.

"Yes?" she breathed.

"I want to taste you."

The jolt of desire that travelled from her belly to her cunt almost made her come on the spot. She nodded. "Please," she said. "Oh God, please." She carded her fingers into his hair and pulled him in, taking his lips again. He broke the kiss and worked his way down her body, taking his sweet time and giving her neck and breasts and even her arms equal attention. He was the only person to have ever discovered just how sensitive the insides of her elbows were. When he got to her navel he looked up at her. She reached down to brush the hair out of his face and he took her wrist, kissing it lightly.

"Lie across the bed," he said.

"What?"

"Perpendicular. More room."

Shifting gracelessly to the middle of the bed, she tucked one of the pillows between her shoulders and the wall and he put the other one under his knees. Right as she got settled, he hooked his hands under her knees and pulled her forward until her bum rested at the edge of the mattress. With one swift motion he pulled her knickers down and off, then contemplated them for a moment in his hand. He set them aside and Molly remembered that she'd never found the knickers she'd been wearing before the last time. Had he taken them with him?

His lips trailing up her inner thigh pull her back to the present, and his teasing breath on her center before he moved on to her other thigh obliterated any further coherent thought.

"Please just do it," she gasped.

"Hmm?" he said, tracing his finger along her labia.

"You said you wanted to taste it."

"Yes, but it's a lot like wine, isn't it? One needs to savor the aroma first?" He breathed in deeply and slid one finger into her while his thumb grazed her clit.

"Fuck. You fucking bastard," she said, bucking her hips against his hand.

"Molly,"he said. "Look at me."

As he chose that moment to slide a second finger inside her, so obeying was more than a bit difficult, but she managed to meet his gaze, staring down at him through her lashes.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, never stopping the motion of his fingers.

Molly's head lolled back as he drove in particularly deep. "I don't care."

His hand stopped. "You don't care? So I could just stop and go downstairs and do a crossword puzzle." He withdrew his fingers and she seized him by his hair.

"No! Just. Suck me until I get off and then fuck me into mattress just please fucking do it."

"All you needed to do was ask," he said, and then his tongue was on her, flat against her clit and lapping slowly. He wrapped his arms around her thighs and pulled her tight against his face as his speed increased. Molly looked up at the cracked plaster ceiling and fought back laughter. That morning the biggest thing she'd had to look forward to was the cherry cobbler she'd packed for lunch and now Sherlock Holmes was sucking on her clit.

"Oh God," she said, drawing out the last word as her orgasm hit, without warning. She tried to wiggle away as the wave crested but he held tight, digging his fingers into her waist as he coaxed the final spasms from her, making her cry out again.

When he let her go, he popped up on his knees with a proud smirk. He wove his fingers through hers and pulled her to a sitting position. Molly looped her arms around his neck and kissed him lazily, licking the corners of his mouth where the salty taste of her had gathered.

"I think it's time you got rid of those trousers," she whispered into his ear.

He rose to his feet in front of her. She unzipped him and pushed his trousers and pants down. As soon as he'd stepped out of them, she got hold of his cock, stroking it slowly as she looked up at him. She savored the contrast of the silky skin over the hardness, not remembering whether she'd ever gotten her hands on it before, they'd been in such a hurry last time. She leaned in to take him in her mouth but he stopped her, putting his finger under her chin to tilt her head up.

"I don't think I'll be able to manage for long if you do that," he said.

"Really?" She slipped the head of his cock in her mouth and swirled her tongue around it once. He made a strangled noise and pulled back, his cock leaving her lips with a small pop.

"I'm absolutely certain," he said. "Now lie back on the bed."

Molly complied and Sherlock soon followed, covering her with his body and reawakening her with his mouth, using his teeth in ways Molly knew would leave a mark. Again she thought she'd have to resort to begging, but he finally settled between her legs, his prick positioned at her entrance. He looked down at her and brushed her hair back from her face.

"You're sure?"

In answer, she lifted her hips and cupped his arse, pulling him in. She moaned as he filled and stretched her.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked.

"No," she sighed. "You feel so fucking good." She rolled her hips against him and he rocked into her. They found their rhythm quickly, as though they'd been doing this for years and not just longing for it. Her mind wandered, to flashes of their conversations, bits and pieces of the other time they'd had sex, fantasies she'd had about him and even the most mundane things, while a part of her stayed right in this room with him, in a squeaky, narrow bed that one could only have sex in if the house were completely empty.

Sherlock whispered things in her ear, barely audible. Things she could barely hope or believe were true, about how much he needed her.

"You're safe," he breathed. "I won't let him—"

"Sherlock I know. I trust you." She kissed him and he pressed his forehead to hers. His speed increased and she dug her heels into the bed, afraid they were going to fuck it apart. The pressure in her abdomen built again and she clung to him as it released, calling his name as his hips stuttered into hers two, three more times before he stilled, falling on top of her as he pulsed inside her. As he worked to control his breathing, he rolled over and pulled her close, her head on his chest and her leg slung over his. She snuggled into his neck and willed time to stand still, content to spend at least the next few months in this bed. Her bedmate laughed softly and stroked her hair.

"What?" she said, hiding her face in his chest.

"Your thoughts are loud. We've got hours. Let's make the most of them."

And in those few hours, there was nothing but the wind and the rain, a low burning fire, and a creaky twin bed.


End file.
